


Intermediate Move

by Elke Tanzer (elke_tanzer)



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: farrow_marshall, Goa'uld, M/M, Stargate SG-1 AU: Broken Wings - Freeform, Stargate SG-1 AU: Howling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-01
Updated: 2008-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:38:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elke_tanzer/pseuds/Elke%20Tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Beware fucking snakes</i>, indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intermediate Move

**Author's Note:**

> Beware issues of dubious consent and cloning mindfucks and explicit content.
> 
> Written for [synecdochic](http://synecdochic.dreamwidth.org/), in thanks for and set in her Stargate [Broken Wings](http://www.kekkai.org/synecdochic/sg1/bw.html) universe, and specifically [A Howling In The Factory Yard](http://www.kekkai.org/synecdochic/sg1/howling/)... and because she told us to play in her sandbox.
> 
> I wasn't going to play. At the time I was behind on everything, and I had so many other things I should have been doing. And then I spotted in a comment thread [here](http://synecdochic.livejournal.com/253312.html?thread=11079040#t11079040) that [synecdochic](http://synecdochic.livejournal.com/) and [ivorygates](http://ivorygates.livejournal.com/) were both absolutely convinced that they knew, one way _and_ the other, whether Delta is the original Ba'al or not, and I was OK with that, and amused by their disagreement, but _then a fucking snake in the back of my mind insisted that **they were both wrong**_.
> 
> At some point, I suspect that synecdochic will Joss this. Apparently the snake in my hindbrain doesn't care about being Jossed; he wanted his story told.
> 
> Cross-posted to my journals and to [farrow_marshall](http://community.livejournal.com/farrow_marshall/818.html) on LJ.
> 
> _Beware fucking snakes_, indeed.

The sheets are always dirty; the sheets are always clean. He doesn't bother to enumerate all of the incidental benefits of this particular contingency plan, and instead allows himself to live in the moment, enjoying the slide and friction of the body moving beneath him, around him, the heat across his skin, the damp tangled sheets.

Yes, he does enjoy wringing the panting breaths and gasps from the young, very flexible body beneath him.

The tattoos are a new touch, and the face and body are of course younger, but the hitches of breath, the pleasure-which-is-almost-pain noises, the pain-which-is-almost-pleasure noises, oh, those are so very familiar.

Humans seem to have more trouble than most species with the notion of non-individuality. He admitted to himself weeks ago that he's fascinated by the process with which this particular human has approached the challenge, and since that fascination did open worthwhile options to be exploited, he has continued to foster the interest.

He's not allowed his glee to show, not to the most intent observer, since he first decided that the young man's cover story is just that, a cover... and how many layers of cover, well, that remains to be seen.

He watches sweat bead across the forehead, across the whorls and symbols across the chest, catches a droplet on his fingertip as he runs his fingernails ungently along the ribcage. This room's air conditioning has no trouble compensating, but he's adjusted the temperature to be just a touch warmer than humans would find comfortable. He's not above the simple humor of making the young man sweat... he's kept far older and far wiser opponents spinning out their plots in spiraling circles and knows when to bother to push, and when to let them work against themselves until they're wrung out from the effort. Some simple pleasures are truly simple.

He's certain that they both know they're toying with each other. Not simply on the obvious, sexual and physical level, but two or three levels deep, perhaps more. As the centuries have played themselves out, he's never failed to appreciate wheels within wheels, gears spinning and grinding their sharp, sharp teeth. He has sharp teeth of his own, and he bites back.

The man beneath him... this pawn who has built around himself a wall to become a rook, this downfall waiting to befall, may be nothing more than bricks and stone to come tumbling down at a touch... or perhaps this pawn thinks himself a knight, swerving at right angles of intent, bringing down the whole castle. That's far more fitting.

This little game is, as never ceases to be true, a game within a game, and there's no checkmate yet. Perhaps it's within a game of go, within another game of chess. A mocking smile from centuries past floats to the surface of his vast memories, Yu's smug face glimmering through long-distance retransmitters as too many ships burned and too many armies died. There had been too many black knights rolling over to show their coward's underbellies, too many cowards rolling over to show their hidden strength, and too many resources lost to little effect, damn him.

Some games never had gray unknowns lurking in the shadows, and some games never have gray unknowns lurking in plain sight. This game is far more interesting, and the current moment more useful than many memories of the past.

The panting has quickened, the precipice close. Of course he does not work up a sweat himself, but the salt-sheen clings to him where he's held the man tightly, and he thinks he'd like to try licking a path along morning mist-drenched skin one day soon, to taste the difference between post-sex sweat and post-run sweat mingled with cloud mist. Some appetites require a cultivated taste to truly appreciate nuance, after all, and he doubts his nemeses to have considered the idea, although of course he's never completely certain... that's the way that particular round of _their_ game is played, and after all he is the one who drew up that particular board, so he can ill afford to ignore such tiny details. He's come a long way from hounds and jackals, certainly.

He was not above killing the first successful batch of clones simply because they were aware that they were copies, with the original still in existence. Their knowledge of their impending dooms hadn't been enough to save them, of course; he'd seen to that before ever allowing their creation.

He knows all of the current ally-nemeses within his manufactured family as well as they think they know him. He remembers planning how best to ensure that every Ba'al awakening from the cloning process would remember stepping into the original's sampling chamber, its room identical to each of the chambers they'd wake in, all along the circular hallway in the underbelly of his headquarters. He remembers closing his eyes and running, then sliding in his sock feet down the well-waxed hall. He remembers fumbling for a doorknob, eyes closed and grinning in his last moments of solitude, pausing to slip out of his socks and toss them randomly one up and one down the corridor, joining the scattered clumps of red herrings already there.

They all remember this.

There's no chance that clones will join forces to overthrow an original if they all believe that they're the original, and no chance the original will consider the clones expendable if he believes himself a clone. At one point they all believed that comfortable fiction.

He's such a bastard sonofabitch, and he likes that about himself.

The thought makes him grin, and he bends to lightly nip his teeth between neck and shoulder as the muscles underneath the skin there tense.

His prick slides quick and easy again and again into the welcoming tightness, and he has enjoyed the heat, enjoyed the tension, enjoyed this round of their little game.

He pulls out, close, so close, and watches carefully for the startled flutter of eyelids in response, hoping his actions are unexpected. He shifts his balance to take them both in hand, restarting the rhythm flawlessly with tight grip and insistent caress, giving the man just enough time to fight for focus past sensation, showing him just enough in his own eyes, his own face, before carrying them both over the edge, eyelids tightening shut involuntarily at precisely the moment he intends. The move is made, the die is cast, with only a slight moment of recognition to mark it, on each of their sides. Only time will tell how the throw falls, which pieces will stand and which will fall by the end of this round.

It's likely that _no one_ will ever know how many times this particular mix of genetic materials has stained expensive sheets, a bedroom wall, a cell's floor... and that's just part of the game.

**Author's Note:**

> Delta is such a fascinating character.
> 
> *creeped out shudder*
> 
> And honestly, when I sat down to type this story out, I was convinced I was writing Delta/JD. As soon as I posted it, I realized: _I'm not so entirely sure it was Delta._
> 
> *further-creeped out shudder*
> 
> Fucking snakes!


End file.
